


To Go Consenting

by Distracted



Category: Killjoys (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:41:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25253284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Distracted/pseuds/Distracted
Summary: Johnny is in a spot of bother when a job goes sideways. Alvis offers himself up to help.The consequences of those actions have effects no-one could have predicted - Alvis's life is in danger and Team Awesome Force are trapped in a race against the clock, trying to find a cure for the condition that is killing the monk.First chapter updated.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo I've been writing for over 20 years. First smut I've ever written and actually shared. Go easy on me, huh? 😊
> 
> Also, I've used John rather than Johnny thought this. My boss is called Johnny and I just couldn't do it.
> 
> Also also, it's un-edited. If I had to go back and re read this I'd probably not be brave enough to post it.

"Neuro blocker didn't work then?" Alvis asks as he drops onto the barstool next to John. 

"No," John grinds out, skin flushed, pupils blown wide under the drug's influence. His hands were clenched into fists on the bar. 

"Do Dutch and Dav know?" he asks. They'd chased the person doing the doping out of the bar. John should have been with them, chasing the son of a bitch down, just like he should have been protected from the drug's effects. 

"Yes," John says and shifts in the stool, flexing his hands. "Dav just laughed. Dutch told me to find a sexer and go wild." 

It's the most uncomfortable he's ever seen the man look. Beads of sweat have formed at his hairline, and his pulse is pounding in his neck. 

"Come with me," Alvis says, reaching over to pick up John's glass. "I've got a room upstairs."

He leads the way through the packed bar, reaching over to steady the other man when he stumbles, coordination shot to all hell because of the drug. The drug is a nasty one, intended to strip people of their inhibitions. It also makes its victims profoundly horny. 

The Killjoy's skin is flushed, coated in a thin sheen of sweat and Alvis realises that John is going to need more than a room to sleep it off in. He quirks an eyebrow and opens the door, letting John through, taking the time to lock it securely behind them. 

John is perched on the edge of the bed, hands fisted in the covers. "Find me a sexer?" he asks, voice rough with need. The low light makes his eyes look almost black. The bulge in his pants is obvious. 

Dutch would kill him if he let John go off with a stranger in his current state. They're not friends exactly, but any port in a storm, and the one blowing John's way looks to be massive. 

"Use me," Alvis says quietly and swallows the dregs of John's drink with a deliberate gulp. He rarely, rarely uses any sort of intoxicants, but it's been a while since he's been with a man and the sensation in his stomach isn't just anticipation. It's nerves and the feeling surprises him a bit. 

"No," John says, but there's not much conviction in his voice. "I can't be gentle," he warns. 

"It's not my first time with a man," Alvis says and crosses the space in between them. 

John drags him down into a bruising kiss. Alvis feels his lip spilt, blood flooding his mouth, and the pain feels like a blessing. His robes come off easier than John's clothes, but before long they're both naked, slick skin rubbing together as they collapse on the bed. Skillful hands play over his body, the drug heightening every sensation and he has to close his eyes to make it bearable. 

He runs his fingers over John's chest, the sparse, coarse hair there rough against his skin, leaning in to drag his teeth over a nipple. 

"Alvis," John says and it's a plea and a prayer and a question all in one desperate word. Behind the drug, John's eyes are unsure and Alvis cups his cheek. 

"It's okay," he says, "Use me."

John blinks and licks his lips. "Then turn over."

The bed shifts under them as Alvis rolls over, the bedding brushing his over sensitive skin and making him shudder. 

John drags his nails down his back and the sensation is almost his undoing. He arches up into it, breath coming in gasps and John nips his shoulder, small beads of blood welling. 

"Do you have…" John asks thickly. 

"Bedside drawer," Alvis answers and cool air replaces the Killjoy's heat as he moves away. It makes him shudder, the ache low down in his belly spreading through him like a smouldering fire. 

"Up," John taps his hip, hard enough to sting and Alvis gets on his knees, gasping as calloused fingers wrap around him, stroking him, bringing him to the edge. 

"John," he warns softly, knowing any stimulation after he climaxes will be unbearable. He'd bear it, for John, but it'll be better for both of them if he doesn't have to. 

John gives him one final firm tug, then kneels behind the monk on the bed. Sweat slides over their skin and he gives into temptation, licking a trail up the other man's spine. The need boiling in his guts is getting unbearable and he fumbles the cap off the lube, covering himself. 

Alvis shudders under him as he applies the lube, the cool liquid a sharp contrast to their heated skin. John presses into him in one smooth thrust and they both groan. The Killjoy is bigger than he expected, big enough to burn and the mix of pleasure and pain leaves him right on the edge of too much. He dips his hips, changes the angle a bit until John tugs him back up. He turns his head, teeth finding the skin on his arm, and chokes in a breath as John starts to move. 

He was right, Alvis thinks hazily. There was nothing gentle about this coupling. John's thrusts are deep and hard and perfect, with just an undercurrent of desperation. They fall into a rhythm, and for a moment it feels so damn good Alvis loses himself, lets the pleasure wash over him, a rare treat, for once unbalanced by the pain that usually comes with it. 

John's fingers cling to his hips, making dents in his skin that will be bruised by morning. Neither of them are going to last much longer. He's on the brink of climax and it crashes over him in a wave when John changes angles slightly. He throws his head back, everything leaving him but the sheer overwhelming joy that paints stars across his eyes, draws entire galaxies over his brain. 

John thrusts again, chasing his own release, and Alvis cries out, the sensation too damn much, over stimulated nerves sparkling between pain and pleasure. His teeth find his arm again, anchoring him as John speeds up, thrusts stuttering into his climax. 

They both cry out as he pulls out. Alvis rolls onto his side, chest heaving as he catches his breath. 

John is sprawled next to him, eyes half lidded with sleep. He touches the monk's face with a trembling hand, lips curling into a smile. 

Alvis shifts, hiding his wince a second too late. His body feels well used, the last waves of pleasure ebbing out of him. "I'm fine," he says, but he can see the doubt in John's gaze. 

John grunts. The coupling or the drug or both has left him feeling pleasantly exhausted and he knows that if he didn't feel so sticky, he'd probably already be asleep. He eases out of the bed, paddling to the attached bathroom to wash, using the facilities and absently wiping himself over. 

The cloth comes back pink with blood and guilt crashes down on him like a falling ship. Suddenly shy, almost ashamed, he wraps the threadbare towel around his hips and heads back to the bed. 

Alvis is sprawled on his side, one arm curled under the pillow, eyes half lidded with sleep. John bites his lip, hating to disturb the other man but the guilt is sitting like a rock in his gut and he needs to know he's alright. 

"You're bleeding," John blurts, holding the washcloth up like the other man might need proof. "Damn it, I knew this was a bad idea." 

"You didn't do anything to me that I didn't want," Alvis says simply. 

"Oh so you wanted to bleed, did you?" John snaps, guilt churning into anger, forgetting for a second who he's talking to. 

Alvis laughs. "Scarback, remember?" he asks gently. "It's kind of my thing."

John shakes his head, at a loss for words. He tosses the cloth into the recycler and bends to gather his scattered clothes. 

"Come back to bed," Alvis says, voice heavy with sleep. One of his braids has come loose and the hair falls into his face. 

John reaches over to push it back, half expecting the other man to flinch. He doesn't, just blinks tiredly. "Are you sure you're okay?" John asks. 

"Doesn't even hurt," he says, and it's not a lie. The morning might be another matter, but right now his body is sated, flooded with good hormones. He's content, and it feels like both a blessing and a curse. "Stay. Sleep." A thought hits him and he bites back a laugh. "But you get to tell Dutch and Dav what happened." 

John flops on the bed, covering his face with the pillow and groans. 

He's probably never going to live this down.


	2. Two

Chapter Two 

He can't rouse Alvis the next morning. The monk is sprawled on his back, one tattooed arm curled under the pillows, breathing slow and just slightly irregular. He's pale, shadows like bruises under his eyes. 

John shakes him, taps his cheek and gets no response. "Shit!" he curses and rips the blankets back, convinced he's going to see a pool of blood under the man but there's nothing there. The bruises on his hips and livid through and John gulps, rubbing one hand over his mouth, knowing they'll take weeks to fade. 

He sends a message to Pawter, and paces the room until she knocks on the door, her medical bag slung over one shoulder. She pats his arm, eyes meeting his, and he feels a little of the worry slide out of him. 

"What happened?" she asks while walking to the bed and John fills her in, nerves churning in his guts until she nods. "Okay. I doubt a bit of rough sex caused this so you can stop blaming yourself." 

She drops the bag on the bed next to Alvis and rubs her knuckles hard on his sternum. The monk groans, one hand lifting to ward her off. There's something appallingly vulnerable about the gesture that makes John bite his lip, stomach clenching. Somewhere along the way the man has become a friend to him and seeing him injured or drugged or whatever the hells is going on hurts. 

"Cmon, Alvis, open your eyes for me," Pawter says, two fingers resting on his pulse point. It's racing and she realises that this isn't just a bad hangover. "Open them, Alvis." She rubs his sternum again and this time he gets his eyes open. "Do you object to me treating you?" she asks and gets a slow headshake in return. Some of the more radical Scarbacks view medical care as against their vows and while she didn't think Alvis was one of them, it never hurts to check. 

Alvis is no stranger to pain, but the way his body is throbbed is making him feel sick, spit flooding his mouth. He swallows hard and it's a mistake. His stomach rolls and he barely manages to turn his head to the side before he's puking. 

Hands on his shoulder and hip roll him onto his side. He'd be embarrassed if he didn't feel so damn miserable. He's burning and freezing at the same time, body shaking. He gulps, clenching his jaw closed, feeling the lactic ache as his muscles fight to override his will. It's something he's spent half his adult life working on, and he gets control over his body long enough to get a couple of clean breaths before he's retching again, bringing nothing but sour bile up. 

Pawter says something to him but he can't focus enough to understand the words. The sudden sharp sting of an injection against the inside of his wrist makes him start. It's ironic, a Scarback who has no problem cutting his own skin but is afraid of injections. 

There's a warm hand on his shoulder, comforting out of all proportion, and from the calluses he figures it's John. The nausea fades slowly, and he's grateful, drawing in slow breaths so he doesn't set it off again. 

"Sorry," he mumbles. 

Someone wipes his face with a cool, damp cloth and presses a bottle to his lips. "Just a sip," Pawter warns. "Are you still feeling sick?" 

He swallows the water, eyes drifting closed and thinks he nods. Another injection stings against his skin and he drifts a bit, only coming back reality when a wash of cold air hits him. The smell of sick has vanished and he realises that the sheets have been changed. 

"Any pain, Alvis?" Pawter asks. "Scale of 1-10."

12, he thinks, because even his hair hurts. "Eight," he says, voice rough and a little desperate. 

Pawter touches his cheek and nods, eyes full of worry. "Okay," she says "give me a few minutes to set a port and I'll give you some of the good drugs." 

"Pills?" A shudder washes through him again and he tugs at the blankets, suddenly cold. Some part of him thinks he should embrace the pain, accept it, but he didn't consent to this, didn't ask for it and there's no blessing in that, just suffering and he's human enough to want it to stop for a while. His carefully built defences are washing away and he's not sure what will be left of him if they crumble. 

"Tried that," John says, his weight sinking down on the edge of the bed behind the monk. "You threw them up." 

"Oh," Alvis says faintly, the realisation he's lost time sending a spike of something like panic through him. "John, I can't remember," he says, voice uneven. 

"You were pretty out of it," John says, fingers playing over the livid bruise on the other man's inner arm. "What's this? Did you do this because of me last night?" his voice is stricken, filled with guilt. Lines of it crease his face. "Alvis, did I hurt you?"

Alvis doesn't have the energy or ability to explain it so he blinks, shaking his head. "No," he grates out. "You… I…" He can't find the words. "No," he says finally. "Ask me again when I'm not half out of my head," he adds and John nods, accepting that. 

"Ready?" Pawter asks, a tray of equipment in her hands. 

Alvis glances at it and his head swims. The needles look enormous and his stomach does a funny little flip. 

Something must have shown on his face. John and Pawter exchange glances, switching sides of the bed without a word. John kneels, taking Alvis's hands and meets his eyes. 

"Not going to lie, this is going to suck, but it'll be over quickly." His own arm throbs in phantom pain where his own poet had been, back when Dav had stabbed him. 

"Take a deep breath," Pawter advises, and swipes a cleansing pad over the top of his arm, over the thick bone of his humerus. 

It feels exactly like she's trying to drill through his shoulder with a blunt spoon. He's not sure if the words tumbling from his lips are prayers or screams and he's not sure how to tell the difference any more. He's pretty sure she injects acid, or maybe it's molten glass because his arm is on fire, throbbing like a bad tooth and he twists, trying to get away from the pain.

"Okay, you're doing great," Pawter mummers and tapes the bone port in place. An IV would have been less traumatic for all of them but the two she'd tried to start had blown his veins and she didn't have the supplies for another try. She injects the drugs and feels the monk slowly relax as they take hold. 

John wipes the other man's face, watching as the tension leaves his face. Alvis blinks a couple of times, staring with something like wonder, and passes out. 

"Pawter, what the fucking hells is wrong with him?" John asks, voice tight, clipped. 

The doc shakes her head, slowly peeling off her gloves and meets John's eyes. "I have no idea."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

_ The night before  _

"Smells like something died in here," Dutch complains as they duck through the door into a massive warehouse. The tracker on their mark says he's inside. 

"Many somethings," Dav agrees. It's a scent he's all too familiar with- sweet decay, underlaid with something more foul, more potent. 

They split up, taking a wall each. Dutch heads over to the left, into the gloom of the huge space. The overhead lights are in but do little to illuminate the room, leaving spots of shadow. Scrapes on the floor shows where equipment has been installed and replaced. 

Something rolls under her foot and she bends, picking it up with a gloved hand. It's a vial, made from bright blue glass, a laughing skull etched into the surface.  _ Well at least we're in the right place,  _ she thinks and tucks it away in her pocket. The less of the stuff floating around, the better in her book. 

"Dutch!" Dav calls and something in his voice sends an icy shudder down her spine. "Found our drug cooker."

The man is hanging from a beam, thin wire wrapped around his neck. An overturned stool under his feet shows scuff marks, like he'd changed his mind. 

"Well, shit!" She shakes her head. "Bloody bastard."

Dav cuts him down, patting the body over, finding a PDD and a handful of coins but nothing else. He takes the device but leaves the coins. 

Dutch is poking around, trying the doors that lead off the main room. One swings open under her hand and she steps inside, gun up still because you never know what might be lurking. The smell is stronger here, so bad she presses her sleeve against her face to block it out. The room is narrow and dark, with just enough light filtering in for her to take in the scene. 

Even after all she's seen, all she's done, the nasty little space makes her stomach roll. There are bodies, more than she can easily count in one go. Most have one limb chained to the wall. 

"Dav!" she calls, and holsters her gun, pulling out her PDD instead, crouching to scan the closest body, then the next, and the next. All of them show traces of the drug. 

He swings into the room, putting it together quickly from the expression on her face. "Well this isn't good."

There's a console on the wall and he crosses to it, skimming through the research while it copies to his device. "It wasn't meant as a pleasure drug. It's God's damn chemical warfare." 

They share a worried glance. "Johnny," Dutch says, and tries to raise him on comm, but something is blocking the signal. "We need to go," she says. "I can't reach him." 

"Because of the storm?" Dav asks. The swirling, almost purple clouds had sent a chill through him, sitting low on the horizon. If the town was really unlucky, they'd turn into a black rain event and really spoil everyone's day. 

"We need to go back." She shoves her device back into her pocket, and heads for the door, heels clicking on the floor like a clock wound too tight. 

_ You better damn well be okay, John,  _ Dav thinks and follows her, glad to leave the smell of death behind. 


	4. Four

Chapter Four 

The storm boiled overhead as they reached the Royale, air stinking of ozone, enough static to zap Dutch as she pushed the door open. She'd expected the bar to be full, offering shelter for those in need, but it was silent apart from Pree, sitting at a table with a bottle in front of him. 

Dutch stops so quickly that Dav crashes into her, dread clawing at her gut like a living thing. "Johnny?" she asks, fearing the answer but needing it at the same time. Her pulse beats in her throat like some tiny trapped thing, fighting to get free. A hundred scenarios race through her mind and she dismisses them all, eyes focused on Pree's face. 

Pree shakes his head. "He's fine. It's Alvis."

Dutch feels the air rip out of her like she's been punched. Relief, that John is okay, and terror that Alvis isn't. She loves both men, in vastly different ways and the thought of losing either one makes her want to scream or puke or punch something or someone. 

"What happened?" Dav asks, one hand resting on Dutch's shoulder in silent support. He's seen her getting closer to the monk, seen their relationship deepening and been happy for both of them. She deserves some happiness, after everything, he thinks. 

Pree fills his glass and hands it to her. "Pawter isn't sure, but she's working on it. Some kind of fever, she thinks. He's pretty bad." He thinks of the monk's screams earlier and has to drain his glass to chase them out of his mind. 

Dutch drains the glass in one gulp and hands it back with shaking fingers. "Usual room?" she asks, in motion before Pree nods. 

Dav nods at Pree, stopping when the other man holds out his hand, rings twinkling in the light. "What aren't you telling Dutch?" Dav asks, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

"Your brother is blaming himself. The blocker didn't work. Alvis offered himself in place of a sexer. Seemed to think your brother might be in need of a familiar face." 

Ice crawls down Dav's spine, a chill leaching into him that had nothing to do with the temperature. "Are you saying John hurt him?" He can't keep the skepticism out of his voice. 

"No." Pree shakes his head, and for a second, he looks exhausted. He blinks and the expression vanishes but it makes Dav wonder how bad the night had been. Makes him wonder if that's why the bar is empty, and the thought makes him feel queasy. "No. I'm saying Johnny is blaming himself and you might want to keep an eye on him."

Dav nods and pats Pree on the shoulder. "Got it." He heads for the stairs, taking them two at a time and finds Dutch sitting on the floor outside of their usual room. 

"Hey," he says and crouches in front of her, one hand cupping her cheek. It's wet and he feels a stab of worry. "It's okay," he adds, knowing it's a lie, but it's a gentle one, told for a good cause, and they both let it slide. 

"I got to the door and I couldn't open the damn thing. Fantastic killjoy, me." Dutch laughs, and it sounds more like a sob. 

"Don't do that," Dav says. "You're one of the bravest people I know. It's okay to be scared." 

She sniffs, patting his hand and pulls away. "No, it isn't. I owe him better than this." She forces herself to open the door before she can change her mind and steps inside.


	5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

The wash of courage only gets her inside of the door. Her peripheral vision catches the bed, and the pale flash of a face but she can't look. Johnny is leaning against the wall, looking out of the window and he turns as Dav closes the door. 

"I'm so sorry," Johnny says, and it breaks the fear holding her in place. "I should never have…" His eyes are red rimmed, undercut by shadows and he's biting his lip. 

She crosses the space between them in three long strides and pulls him into a hug, saying with actions what she can't say with words. 

For a second, he's rigid in her arms, muscles trembling because he's so tense, then he relaxes, arms coming up to hold her. "Go to him," he whispers in her ear and steps back, releasing her. 

She nods and crosses to the bed. Alvis is propped up on his side with pillows, skin ghostly white apart from the deep shadows underneath his eyes. Sweat has stuck stands of his hair to his face. His lips are cracked and she automatically digs in her pocket for a stick of balm, stopping just short of touching him. She's not sure if it's okay, if it will hurt him, so she pulls her hand back, nails digging into her palm.

"It's okay. You can touch him," Pawter says. "He's been in and out of consciousness, but he was asking for you."

"I'm here," Dutch says, and takes his hand, feeling his fingers curl around hers. His skin is hot and damp, fever burning through him. She takes in the port in his upper arm with a quiet gulp, a tube feeding fluids and Gods knows what else into his battered body. 

She squeezes his hand gently, brushing his hair back with her other hand, almost freezing when his eyes flutter open. 

"Hey," he grates out, voice rough, bloodshot eyes tracking to her face. His stubble looks unusually dark and she runs her fingers over his jaw, feeling the hair chafe against her fingertips.

He looks wrecked, and she can practically feel the exhaustion coming off him. A tube runs from his nose, taped on his cheek, and she touches it with questioning fingers. 

"Had to go old school," Pawter says and rubs the back of her neck. "It's keeping his stomach empty to control his nausea. The drugs weren't helping any more." 

"What's causing this?" Dutch asks, carding her fingers through Alvis's hair. His eyes are half lidded, pupils blown wide. 

"We're working on that, Dutch," Johnny says. 

"Scan him. Do science shit, but figure it out!" Dutch snaps, and feels his fingers tighten around hers again. "Sorry," she adds into the silence. 

"Nothing is showing on the scan," Johnny says as Dav pulls Pawter into a hug. "Whatever this is, it's nasty and it's hiding from us." 

"And it feels fucking fantastic," Alvis adds, sarcasm heavy in his voice. It can't quite hide the pain, can't quite hide the catch in his breathing, the way he leans into her touch.

"We'll figure it out," Johnny says, and pats the monk's leg, gently. "What did you find in the warehouse?" 

Dav fills him in, and goosebumps crawl over his skin at the description. "Guess the blocker did something after all," he says faintly, the edges of a memory tickling his mind. He lucks his lips and the memory comes back, making him stare down at the bed in horror. "Oh fucking hells," he gasps. "The blocker. He finished my drink. Guess it did do something after all." Guilt for not thinking about it sooner digs at him, and he swipes his hand through his hair, gaze falling on the man in the bed. 

"What does that mean?" Dutch asks. 

"It means we might be able to stop this," Johnny says, and digs in his pocket, pulling out a small vial of colourless liquid. 

Pawter takes it with gloved hands. "How much?" she asks, a syringe ready. 

Johnny shrugs. "All of it? I took a full vial."

"Okay," she says, and draws up the drug, injecting it into the port in Alvis's arm. 

For ten long seconds, nothing happens. 

Then the monk starts seizing. 

**Author's Note:**

> Well if this little bugger didn't turn into a real story on me. I hope you'll all enjoy it.


End file.
